The Bloody Doors Off

I can’t math. I barely made it through the subject in Grade 11. Dropped it the next year.

Not because I couldn’t do the work.

Depression. I can look back and see the impact it had.

And still can.

But I won’t let it.

Like I said, I can’t math. Turns out, I didn’t self-commit in September 2013, it was October. I’m having memories of Hallowe’en decorations up in the common room. Plus, today is the day I put down as having quit smoking. Because when you’re intake, you’re on lockdown for 72 hours and they won’t let you outside to enjoy a cigarette. You’re shaken to the core at how close you came to self-harm, and they won’t let you smoke a fucking cigarette.

Which was ultimately a good thing. Eight years now without tobacco.

I’d tried to quit twice before. Once was cold turkey; I picked up a pack of smokes to handle the stress at casino (this was pre-Mollie roadtrips). The second, I tried using Champix. Holy crap, I had the most abnormal dreams. We’re talking body parts hanging on hooks in an abandoned hospital nightmares. My mood got worse, it was bad news. So I went back to smoking and the nightmares dissipated.

Three days.

That’s all I needed to quit for good.

My brother Kevin came to pick me up when I was discharged. Happy to be in the fresh air, I pulled out a cancer stick and lit up.

It tasted horrible.

Never looked back.

So here I am, eight years later, staring down the anniversary of my breakdown.

I’m a little shook that I thought it was last month, and the feeling of pride I had when I felt that I’d handled it flawlessly. But I don’t want a cigarette. Not gonna drink the memory away.

I’m stronger than that. I’m here today because I asked for help during my year of hell.

I can do this.